


Can't Train a Moth

by Ariasune



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Consensual Sex, Darkshipping, Hate Sex, M/M, Omega Verse, Omega Verse Deconstruction, Omorashi, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-01-31 04:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12674334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: Bakura hates him. Hates him. Which honestly is less of a problem thanlittleright now. He doesn't want him; he wants the harpy duelist, or Seto Kaiba, or Malik's brother even, really piss Malik off. Bakura doesn't want Shitty Princess Spirit of the God-Pyramid.





	Can't Train a Moth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hergan416](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hergan416/gifts).



> This would be both my first time writing omegaverse, and also watersports of any kind. I've attempted to deconstruct some of my key issues with omegaverse, but take that with a grain of salt since this is PWP.

His wound is stinking the place up, and out of the corner of his eye, Bakura can see his opponent's nose crinkle like burning paper. Teeth teasing in his mouth, Bakura stops fingering the bloody thing, and looks at the Spirit with his expression talking for him. A raised eyebrow, a lilting smirk, the slightest tilt of his head;  _yes, it's me again_. As if on cue, the Spirit's gaze flutters down to Bakura's bare throat, empty chest, and then back up, lips pursing.

The Nameless' Pharaoh's discomfort - locked in an elevator with Bakura - is about the only redeeming feeling there is. Bakura is as equally locked, his arm aches under the numbing  _ka_ , and Malik is a wasted thought in the back of his head. There's a pretty burn in his nerves too, an itch crawling up his spine like a molten-glass spider.

It's not a real heat, Bakura knows.

His landlord might well be barren, since Bakura hasn't seen an actual heat of him -- and Bakura has seen a great deal of Ryou. Truthfully, Bakura was grateful for Ryou's apparent condition. He'd remembered the seething fire frying his wits out in the Egyptian summer, slaking his fever off in the river, and dizzily drinking his entire waterskin empty. No. Heat is wasted on him, and even this half-heat is bothering him.

Bakura scratches his hand at the injury, which is undoubtedly responsible for the false heat, and the wet-iron smell of blood thickens in the air. Again, the Spirit's eyes look over, and again they move away. As it is, Bakura is fidgety, a little flushed, and he hopes the false-heat is obvious enough that the Spirit is uncomfortable in the cloy of it, but Bakura knows that's unlikely. Doesn't even know what sex the Spirit is, and even a full-heat isn't all that obvious, but still it's a fun thought: the Pharaoh's maybe-omega reptile brain getting all riled over a rival putting out a _come hither_ undertone.

Cute thought that, Bakura supposes, might actually even the odds, given how restless Bakura is, how hot his face feels. That, however, is the end of that thought. They reach the duel platform, and it's exposed, even raw with altitude. The cold wind is breathtaking, wonderful on Bakura's skin and he leans into it for a moment, before taking his place across from the Pharaoh.

Again, a head tilt, the glitter of teeth, and the pique of an eyebrow. His duel disc arms, he lays his cards out,  _and he almost has it_.

But he doesn't, and Bakura mutters a curt, "fuck," before the God Beast strikes.

* * *

He wakes soaked in the heat, the vinegar feeling of his own distress pricking under his tongue. Sluggish, words slow in his mouth, Bakura rolls onto his side with a grunt. The room is dark, something he's glad of, already feeling photosensitive with the telling dilation of his pupils. The false heat is insistent now, noisy, which is what Bakura gets for stabbing his arm, and then losing. "Ugh," he sits up clumsily, and shoves his hand against the bedside table. Water. A pitcher, icy against Bakura's skin, and his wrists feel too brittle, upper arm aching too badly to pick it up, so he scoops a handful of water, and drinks hastily.

There's a long-suffering sigh, and Bakura's eyes click upwards, as the Pharaoh moves forward to grab the pitcher. "Here," the Spirit pours a glass out and holds it towards Bakura.

Bakura's thirsty, so he doesn't even sneer first, just drinks. Another glass, and half another, before Bakura pushes the glass against his face with a relieved noise. That done, he finally sneers, taunting: "Come to wait on me hand and foot, Pharaoh?"

This time the Spirit pours himself a drink instead. A dark shape seated in the dark room, Bakura watches him cautiously, before with a show of teeth asking again. "What do you want?"

"Making sure Bakura is unharmed," the Nameless Pharaoh says, simply, and obviously, with heavy irritation.

Bakura can still smell the blood-stink of his injury, and he giggles lightly. "Didn't seem to bother you when we duelled."

"That was then, this is now."

He sips his water, before looking off to the side disdainfully, "he's fine." An assenting hum. "So you can go." Bakura wants to lick his wounds in peace, maybe more-- he's fairly certain Set's darling second life is an alpha, or even the blonde who runs harpies. Malik  _is_ an alpha for certain, but he's an asshole and Bakura suspects he has better options. If he wants them, after-all, but even with the half-heat in full, vivid flare, Ryou's hand should be good enough.

The Pharaoh hasn't moved, except to sip his drink, and Bakura can't help but show his teeth, "I said--"

"I heard you," the Spirit is bored, no- he's angry. "But you're in heat."

Surprised the Pharaoh had noticed, and angrily embarrassed about it, Bakura bares his teeth. Jutting his chin up slightly, glowering at the Spirit, even with his eyes glossy dark and hurting, Bakura snaps, "what's that to do with you, jackass?"

"Like I said."

It's so patronizing, Bakura's teeth  _hurt_ as he grinds them together. His Majesty is guarding Ryou's honour, and by extension, Bakura's. Alpha, definitely an alpha. Only an alpha would get so damn controlling under the guise of chivalry. There's a dozen things Bakura means to say, but what he spits out is a scalding, "go fuck yourself."

The Spirit only measures him with definite disdain, and refills his drink, before replying neutrally. "Is that what you want to do? Go ahead then. I'm sure you're very uncomfortable, and I can look away."

Bakura is spitting, hissing with anger. "You're a piece of shit. Bet you'd fucking like that, you  _lech_. Watching from your shitty throne--"

"I said I'd look away."

At this point the sheer  _mildness_ of the Pharaoh's answers is stripping out Bakura's patience, and nerves, leaving him panting with anger. He gets to his feet unsteadily, swaying in the dizziness at first. There's black spots over his vision but they fade fast, and he's glaring at the Spirit with renewed fury. "Alpha  _fuck_ \-- get the goddamn fuck out of here. It's my goddamn body--"

"No," the Spirit cuts over him, voice cracking dark and low. "It belongs to Bakura, not you, and you are  _not_ carelessly impregnating him."

Bakura laughs, loudly and wolfishly, teeth showing with amusement. The Spirit's clumsy clinical term, and the obnoxious suggestion that Bakura is careless? " _Please_ ," he drawls, "it's not a real heat. It's a pseudo-heat." See, he can also flash around a technical term if he likes. "Ryou doesn't _do_ real heats. You could work my host over front and back, and it'd  _never_ catch."

"...who knows what you'd catch if I let you leave," the Spirit's eyebrows are raised -- Bakura can see it from here, can see the shocked, startled, and embarrassed flush. He can answer all he likes, but there is finally a sense of satisfaction, the upper ground clawing under Bakura's nails.

His tongue darts out, brushing over his lips. "So you're worried about my host? That's what's got you here?" Bakura laughs again, and drops back on the bed. This time he feels balanced enough to pour his own glass.

"Like I said," the Spirit repeats, firmly, but Bakura can see the blood in his face, and he barks out a laugh.

"Right,  _right_ , keeping this vessel nice and clean."

"We can only hope," the Pharaoh murmurs under his breath, but Bakura's senses are straining, tight and alert.

He giggles faintly. "Sure." Bakura's eyelashes flutter slightly, feeling a little heavy in the heat of his body. "You wanted to protect little Ryou's virginity, so you locked yourself in a room with me." He turned his head towards the door with an interested look, "is it actually locked?"

"It's locked."

"Ah," Bakura sneers, giggling. "So you're locked in with a warm omega."

The Spirit clears his throat. "Seems so."

"And it's not affecting you?" Bakura taunts. "Not itchy, are we?"

"I didn't say that," the Nameless Pharaoh reaches out, and Bakura's breath hitches a little in anticipation, but the Spirit is only refilling his drink. "There's enough water for you and I to sweat it out."

Again Bakura's temper flares up, instinctively reacting to being _taunted_. "Like a fever? What a fucking waste."

"Enough." The Spirit sounds infinitely irritated by Bakura, and that is the last bit of satisfaction Bakura has right now, what with his blood scorching inside him. "I'm not touching Ryou."

"Ryou's not here," Bakura points out, licking his teeth.

"I said enough, I'm not touching you either," the Pharaoh spits out, irritation cracking into actual anger, and Bakura downright hums in appreciation.

Bakura's voice is a huff, protesting. "Then let me find someone who _will_ fuck me--" The Spirit doesn't interrupt him, only glares at him over the top of his glass. "You're being a fuck," Bakura insists hotly. "Keeping me here like I'm your piece of meat, but not even taking a bite." The Pharaoh is still silent and fucking withholding. "Or do you just get off on being controlling--"

He's gone too far, and it's  _amazing_ when the Spirit snarls at him. Bakura could drink a sound like that. He arches his neck, and listens, dipping his senses in the godawful noise of it.

"Shut up, Bakura."

"It  _is_ affecting you."

"Shut  _up_."

"Let me out, then," Bakura toys with a coil of his hair, eyes lidded. "I  _want_ to fuck someone- hell,  _something_." Bakura's flirtatious tone evaporates into a frustrated sound. "I'm  _horny_."

The Spirit grits his teeth, but stands his ground. "Not my problem, Bakura."

Eyes narrowing, Bakura leans back on the bed a little, and appraises the Spirit with a quick, cursory, even hateful stare. The Spirit is small, and sarcastic, and old-fucking-fashioned. And Bakura hates him.  _Hates_ him. Which honestly is less of a problem than  _little_ right now. He doesn't want him; he wants the harpy duelist, or Seto Kaiba, or Malik's brother even, really piss Malik off. Bakura doesn't want Shitty Princess Spirit of the God-Pyramid.

"Gonna be your problem 'less you let me out," he declares richly, voice spoilt with anger.

The Pharaoh scoffs, and finishes another glass, "unlike  _some people_ apparently, I don't think with what's between my legs. So I think I'll be fine."

Giving a thin hiss, Bakura flicks his hair over his shoulder. "I hope I make the room a fucking sauna." His heat is acrid-hot in his body, and he can't imagine he  _isn't_ making the room unbearable. The Spirit even shifts in his seat as proof of that. They sit in silence, in the thick of Bakura's heat -  _half-heat_ \- before Bakura asks abruptly: "Why not?"

It's obvious what he's asking, and the Spirit deliberates over it like it isn't fucking obvious.

"You're sense-drunk."

"No I'm not," Bakura instantly objects, but he  _isn't_. He's pissed, and he's feeling exceptionally slutty, but he is not drunk off his own heat. "I wouldn't sit here arguing with you if I  _was_."

The Pharaoh shakes his head. "Clearly you're not in your right mind; you're propositioning me just to leave the room."

He huffs, "I'm desperate. That's  _all_."

"Then just jack off, and quit whining."

"I don't  _want_ to."

"You're that lazy?" The Spirit is almost disdainful, but at least he's actually talking with Bakura. "I don't like you."

Bakura's teeth are fresh, and cool in the warmth of his mouth. He can feel them, sharp and obvious as he grins at the Spirit. "I'm not asking you to like me."

The silence comes back, and it stays for so long, Bakura's almost unsure. He thought he'd won, and maybe he's a little sense-tipsy, because this time the rejection doesn't pull anger, but instead insecurity. He's not wanted, not even a little? He whimpers in the back of his throat, but mostly swallows it-- but the Spirit gets to his feet, and this time when he reaches, he reaches for Bakura. 

Relieved, Bakura pushed into the grip, sighing. "Finally-"

"Shut up," the Spirit demands, fist closing around Bakura's belt and wrenching it off, but Bakura just sniggers at him.

"I knew you fucking liked it--" Bakura yelps when the Pharaoh knocks him down, shoving him face-down into the bed. A moment later though, he's laughing again, giggling. "Good strategy locking that door. Just going to guard sweet little omega-- now you have me all to yourself--"

"You," the Spirit pulls Bakura's jeans down, and they trap around his thighs, "are not sweet."

"I'm really not," he agrees, trying to open his legs a little more, knees spreading and hips raised, but the jeans stop him. It's frustrating, not being able to take the right position on the bed. He has to arch his back, and that's going to ache if the Spirit doesn't get on with it. The Spirit's small anyway,  _short_ , can he even  _reach_? "Are you going to fuck me, or--"

"Yes!" The Pharaoh _finally_ loses his composure, shouting at Bakura, and pushing him down by the back of the neck. He almost moans in reaction to it, feeling the Spirit pull his jeans off, tear his shirt open. "Yes. For the last time, yes, yes I am going to fuck your  _lazy_ , insufferable ass." Bakura groans, shuddering at the erection pressing into his thigh. It's not nearly so small as he'd thought, instead heavy and warm against Bakura's leg. "Will you finally shut up if I do?"

"Yes," Bakura lies, and wriggles back into the Spirit's groin.

Naked, and worked up, Bakura can actually  _smell_ his heat now, he's that wet. It's an impressive half-heat, surreal in how familiar it is for Bakura. He could laze in the river water, drink four glasses of it, and he'd still be cat-calling passersby, still end up here, under someone else. The Nameless Pharaoh must smell that too, because there's an deep huff, before he begins pushing into Bakura without warning. It hurts, and aches, and Bakura squirms hard, when the hand on his neck pushes a little.

He can't help it though; he writhes on the cock splitting him open. Even when the Pharaoh's nails are biting into his hips, holding Bakura still as he starts fucking into him, Bakura is still a squirming wreck. Clawing at the sheets, sweat running down into the small of his back, Bakura pants.

He's pleased now, satisfied that it's not Seto Kaiba, or the Harpy Lady, or even Malik. The Spirit is just right, just that right edge of forceful, that Bakura could almost forgive him winning the duel. He's angry fucking Bakura, and it's rough, and a pretty sort of painful, and when Bakura hoarsely demands, "harder," the Spirit gets more furious, and pounds Bakura even  _better_.

Eyes lidding, Bakura moans noisily, indulgently when he feels the growing knot catch on his hole. He doesn't even have to do anything, just arch there and squirm with satisfaction as the Pharaoh tries his best to take him. That almost makes Bakura laugh, throat tight around the roadkill wail of pleasure; the Pharaoh can (should, absolutely should) trap Bakura on his knot, fuck him until they're tied up, and his entire body is slick with come, and even then -- even then, he couldn't take Bakura.

Nobody can take Bakura, and knowing that, hearing himself laugh around the too-loud, selfish sounding shrieks of approval, hearing the Spirit hiss a dizzy, "quiet-" and defying the imperious tone with another wild moan? Bakura comes harsh, and fast, dropping, almost sliding flat onto the bed.

The Nameless Pharaoh feels bigger with Bakura tight around him, and Bakura's eyes roll up in his head a little, slurring his feral laughter when the alpha just digs his nails into Bakura's hips. Fucks him until he can't pull out, and then grinds, hard and possessively against Bakura.

Lazy with orgasm, heat a suffusing glow in his blood, Bakura turns his head against the sheets, and arches his back. He's got deep clawfuls of bedsheet, and when the Spirit moves deeper, Bakura can feel slick getting pushed out, and running down his legs. He smirks up at the Pharaoh, and coos at him, "stuck?"

"Shut up," the Spirit's teeth are grit, expression unbalanced, and Bakura wriggles against the thick knot with a cackle.

"Make me."

Oh, and the Spirit tries. Really tries. Bakura's softly whining, drooling into the sheets as the Pharaoh sits up, knot pulling at Bakura's body almost painfully, and then tugs Bakura against him. Searches for a position where he can fuck submission out of Bakura, but he'll be searching a long-time, and right now, Bakura is stretched open, and wet, and writhing on the Spirit's cock, and Bakura _might_ just come again with the reaction he's getting.

He's already a little hard, dick sliding over the soft sheets with most of the Spirit's movements. There is, however, the tight twinge of desperation, and it's about time the Pharaoh got it over with.

Finally, rolling his eyes, smirking, Bakura shoves his hands against the bed. Shoving back against the Spirit's chest -- and good, the arms quickly come up, tightly wrapping around Bakura's torso, and throat -- Bakura is sitting back, flushed against the Pharaoh, and he finally, finally, eyes rolling from a mixture of derision and bliss, feels the Spirit jerk hard. Shaking, tectonic, cock tight in Bakura's body, and  _coming_.

"Oh, finally," Bakura taunts, and there's a sharp intaking hiss.

"Fuck you."

Playful, Bakura tilts his head slightly, finding the Pharaoh's neck, and sneers, "already? So needy--" He has to stop, panting at the Spirit's next spurt of come, mewling. It's less satisfying when his gaze refocuses, and the Spirit is the one smirking down at him. He can practically hear the smug retort, and he turns his head away with a huff.

Bakura is boneless, weight heavily pressed against the Pharaoh, his own cock a little hard from the mixture of arousal, and the need to relieve himself. Absently, he feels the Spirit stroking at his hair, and Bakura rolls his eyes with another huff. Typical alpha, probably feeling all soft in the afterglow; you don't see Bakura losing his head like that.

"Better?"

"Mm," Bakura replies noncommittally. He's wet with sweat, and slick, and there's another tightening pulse of come inside him, so he feels cooling. No longer sweating the heat out, and it's possible it's entirely slaked; after-all, pseudo-heat is a reaction to distress, and now he's getting his hair goddamn stroked by his worst enemy. "Y'gonna be done soon?"

The Spirit's shoulder shifts under Bakura's head, which is not an answer, but Bakura is too relaxed to worry too much, he just nods, murmurs something absent, and relaxes.

* * *

The Pharaoh is fidgeting, and with Bakura pressed back against him, it's distracting, and uncomfortable. Keeps pulling Bakura out of the dreamy, drifty post-coital feeling. Hard to relax when the person you're physically tied to has the fidgets. Bakura huffs faintly, and tilts his head back, "Fuck's sake, we can lie down if you're tired."

Bakura begins to try to move them, stomach twinging, and the Spirit makes the most distressed moan Bakura's ever heard in his life. "Please- don't--"

The Spirit stopped coming awhile ago, but his knot is there, and he shouldn't be over-sensitized already, so Bakura tilts his head back again, eyebrows furrowing. "Something wrong?" he asks. He'd missed it in the afterglow, but the Pharaoh is trembling softly. "...hey? Is something wrong?"

There's still no answer, and Bakura is midway through asking again, before the Spirit manages to whine, "it's embarrassing."

"That's pathetic," Bakura pulls no punches, regardless of whose knot is in his ass, and it is predictably not a helpful remark, pushing the Spirit back into silence. Sighing, Bakura tries to be more sympathetic. "Look, you've seen me in heat--"

"Pseudo-heat..." The Nameless Pharaoh mumbles, corrects.

"Yes, yes," Bakura agrees distractedly. "You've seen  _me_ like that, so- it's fine, right?"

"...right."

The Spirit is still not forthcoming, and Bakura growls under his breath, elbowing back against the Spirit's stomach. That prompts the most unholy whimper of pain, that Bakura doesn't dig his elbow in, and stops immediately. "You need to go--" Bakura realizes, blurting out euphemistically.

The Pharaoh is less coy, interrupting and cutting over Bakura. "Need to piss!  _Yes_!" He sounds wound up, and Bakura can't help but giggle. Just a little, hiccoughing out of him. "It's not funny, you asshole- I'm  _stuck_."

"Told y--"

"Would you stop being an ass, and  _listen_ ," the Nameless Pharaoh's teeth are bared, growling softly, rhythmically. Probably helped a little, and Bakura almost giggles one more time, but bites it back barely. "I'm  _stuck._ " He pauses. " _Inside you_."

"Oh," Bakura manages. "Oh shit."

"Yeah," the Spirit sounds angrily satisfied that Bakura finally gets the problem, "shit."

This is not the place Bakura really wants to be, and he's already feeling pretty irritated with the situation he's got into. He's going to move. "Well- can you--" Bakura tries to push up, and pull them apart, and they both snarl in mixed duet. It hurts, but Bakura's willing to  _rip_ them apart if--

The Spirit pushes Bakura down onto the bed, pinning him with his body. "Stop that, you  _idiot_."

"Get off me," Bakura whines, genuinely whines.

"Stop trying to tear us apart then," the Pharaoh snaps.

"Don't want y' t'piss in my ass," Bakura sounds pathetic. He can hear himself, but he really does  _not_ want to be used as a bitch, and then as a goddamn  _toilet_ in one day.

"I'm not  _going_ to," the Spirit's voice is still tight, and sharp, hands placed either side of Bakura's head. "I  _can't_. Not with my knot." Oh-- Bakura lifts his head a little, raw relief in his gaze, because oh, of course. The Spirit couldn't possibly release his bladder, not with the knot, and not when he's hard like that. Bakura almost moans with relief, and the Spirit's voice is even tighter. "Well I'm glad  _you're_ happy."

"Very," Bakura confirms, wriggling into the sheets to get comfortable.

"Stop wriggling," the Spirit adds. "Makes the knot worse."

"Hope you throw a kidney," Bakura purrs at him, satisfied at the way the Spirit is shaking. It's cruel, but Bakura is cruel, and he rolls his hips slightly, pretending he's just getting comfortable.

"Fuck you."

"Oh you  _did_ ," Bakura reminds the Spirit, and adds smugly. "I need to go too, actually," he's taunting. "We drank so much water."

"Don't-"

"Sweating out the heat, right?"

"Bakura, don't you dare--"

Bakura pushes back against the Pharaoh with a little sigh, arching, and lifting his hips a little. "But  _I_ can just go whenever I want."

"Bakura, don't, this isn't fair--" The Spirit sounds less angry, and more plaintive now, pleading a little, and Bakura decides there is no sound he likes better than that. There is a quick decision, consequences weighed against possibilities, and Bakura braces his weight on his elbows with a soft giggle. "Bakura, please."

He likes that. Please. Please, he runs the word around his head with a low, quiet moan, and wets the bed.

Truthfully, the bed was already soaked with sweat and slick, and it is a little awkward, the stream slow, but then Bakura is practically  _showing_ off. He makes a pretty noise of relief as he finishes, relishing the Spirit's nails on his hips. There's not much sound, but the smell is there, clean and acidic, and through the whole thing, Bakura's quiet moan of sheer pleasure as he relieves himself.

The Spirit's voice is jagged, wrenching steel. "I  _hate_ you."

"I hate you too," Bakura replies sweetly, arching a little more-- before he's pushed down onto the wet sheets, and he laughs, because-- "I think you're even  _harder_." The Spirit doesn't say anything, but Bakura can feel it, the slight swell of interest from the fading erection, knot still hard in his ass. In the warmth of the sheets, Bakura feels oddly heated, smirking. "Don't forget to hold it," he taunts, knowing full-well it doesn't even  _matter_.

Bakura doesn't expect the Pharaoh to move, but he does, abruptly, hips shifting, arching behind Bakura. Honestly, Bakura can't tell if he's trying to fuck Bakura, or escape. He makes a questioning sound, and this time the steel is less steel, it's sheer force; a God in the soul, and in the hand-- "Quiet."

He stops talking, and stays quiet, until the Pharaoh pulls out of him, knot tugging hard on Bakura's rim. It prompts a quiet, muffled wail, and Bakura shudders as he feels come dripping down between his legs. A moment later, that heat is changed to the heat of the Pharaoh's piss running down his back, and Bakura whines and struggles weakly, but the Pharaoh's hands are on his hips, pinning Bakura in place as the Pharaoh slowly relieves himself over Bakura's back, and ruined hole.

It must hurt, because the Pharaoh hisses with discomfort, the stream is interrupted, a little jagged, but he holds Bakura still until he's done. The heat fades, the last of it running off Bakura's body, sticking to his skin as it cools, and Bakura feels hazy, shuddery, hot. He mewls softly, and there's the hand stroking his hair -- and then it grasps a handful of it and pulls Bakura's head back, arching him.

"Fuck you," Bakura mumbled, growling it a little. Bakura's face is flushed, the warmth slipping down his throat, humiliated by the sharp arousal in his gut. He can feel the hot tip of the Pharaoh's cock pressing back against his entrance, and blood dizzying again, pushed back into it. It feels tight, huge and heavy against Bakura's open body.

"Make me," the Pharaoh's voice is soft, burning a little against Bakura's ear, as he pushes inside Bakura's wet hole again.


End file.
